Which made her love him all the more.
As she approached them, she noticed another pistol lying on the table. Quickly, she lifted it, checked to be sure it was loaded, then fired at the target. They both jumped.
As the smoke cleared, Sebastian turned and snatched the pistol from her. “Think of the baby, my love! What if the pistol had misfired?”
“I have yet to see any pistol of your design misfire,” she said impishly. “Besides, I wanted to know if I could still do it.”
Morgan eyed the target. “Not bad for an amateur.”
She beamed at him, then handed Griff’s letter to her husband. “Rosalind’s had her baby. A little girl. They’ve named her Winifred.”
“Winnie will be pleased.” He scanned the letter quickly. “Though I hope that helping women conceive is Winnie’s only talent. Because if she can predict the future, too, then we’ve got five more children on the way, sweeting.”
Juliet laughed. She’d forgotten what Winnie had said about his lordship’s “six wee ones.” “I wouldn’t mind so much.” She reached up to smooth his wind-ruffled hair. “I rather like the idea of a lot of little Blakelys running about Charnwood Hall.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Smearing jam on your embroidery and tracking mud on the carpets?”
“I can manage all of that,” she retorted.
“Yes, I’ve no doubt that you can,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her.
Morgan cleared his throat. “Must you two always be so sickeningly in love?”
She laughed at him. “You should try it, Morgan. It’s less dangerous than running off to get yourself killed at every opportunity.”
“Do you worry about me, cherie?” Morgan teased.
“Here now, don’t you use that French with my wife, you rascal,” Sebastian warned mockingly. “I know the effect it has on females.”
“Not me,” Juliet protested. “I’m quite immune.”
Morgan stepped closer to whisper, “I dare say if I’d got to you first, cherie, matters would be entirely different.”
She shoved him away playfully. “Not at all, I assure you.”
He shot Sebastian a devilish look. “You’re lucky I didn’t arrive in England sooner last year, mon frere. Your Juliet would have fallen for the real Morgan Pryce, and you’d have been left without the girl and only this dreary old manor for companionship.”
She shook her head. “I would have known the difference at once.”
“She would have,” Sebastian agreed. “I tried to tell her over and over that I wasn’t her kidnapper, but she didn’t believe a word of it, no matter what I did or said.”
“Of course not. She didn’t have me for comparison.” Morgan drew himself up stoutly. “And I don’t sound quite like you or dress like you. But I’ll wager that if we dressed alike and came before your pretty wife without speaking, she wouldn’t know us apart.”
Juliet crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll take that wager, sir. I could pick Sebastian out in a crowd of Morgans.”
“You think so, do you?” Morgan cocked his head in that same way his brother had. “Very well. What would be the terms of this wager?”
She thought a moment, then grinned. “If I pick out Sebastian, then you have to stay in England and out of trouble for one year. No adventures. No running after highwaymen. Just a nice, normal life in London or Shropshire or wherever you prefer.”
He scowled. “Hard terms indeed. And if you don’t pick him out?”
“Then Sebastian will finance one grand adventure for you in any country you wish. You can go to India and ride elephants. Break your neck, if you like.”
“Now see here,” Sebastian protested, “this wasn’t my idea. Why should I suffer the consequences? A trip to India…why, that would cost me a pretty penny—”
“He won’t take the wager unless it’s worth his while,” Juliet said. “And what could I possibly offer to tempt him?”
Morgan smiled mischievously. “I’m sure I could think of something—”
“Over my dead body, ‘mon frere,’” Sebastian growled in a perfect imitation of his brother’s French. “All right. I’ll agree. But only because I have complete faith in Juliet.”
“You see, Morgan?” she teased. “You can’t win. You sure you want to do this?”
“Hmm…the odds are fifty-fifty that you’ll guess right.”
“I won’t be guessing.”
“Then, to be fair, you have to do it three times correctly. That will sufficiently decrease the odds of your guessing right.”
“Very well,” she agreed readily. “I accept those terms.”
“Um…Juliet,” Sebastian muttered beside her, “are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely.”
He didn’t look nearly as certain as she did, but he merely shrugged and said, “Well, it’s only money,” as he went off with his brother into the house.
The first time they came out, it was laughably simple. Morgan had tied his own cravat—far more elaborately than Sebastian ever would—so it took her no more than a second to point out her husband.
Afterward, she felt compelled to explain Morgan’s error. She did want this to be fair. And at least he graciously agreed to count the trial.
The second time, they’d apparently had Boggs dress them both, for every aspect of their attire was identical, and even their hair was combed the same. She made her choice in seconds and Morgan cried, “That was a lucky guess!”
“You still have another chance,” she said, smirking.
When they came out the third time, she surveyed them a moment, then laughed and said, “This is too easy.” Walking up to her husband, she kissed him full on the mouth.
Morgan exploded beside her. “Sacrebleu, Juliet, how did you know?”
She stared up at her husband’s smug smile. “It’s his eyes. I can see the weight of responsibility in his eyes.” She cocked her eyebrows at Morgan. “Whereas in yours, I only see mischief.”
Sebastian laughed, then drew her into his arms. “You may as well surrender, Morgan. You’re no match for a woman who knows her man simply by the quality of his eyes.”
“You tricked me, Lady Templemore,” Morgan accused half jokingly. “I don’t know how, but you did.”
“Of course she tricked you,” Sebastian retorted. “She made you bet on what she knew was a sure thing. For her. Juliet may look like an angelic innocent, but under all that sweetness lies one wily woman.”
“It’s a good thing, wouldn’t you say?” Juliet kissed him lightly. “Because it takes a wily woman to capture a reckless man.”
About the Author
I’ve been creating fiction for years (I started when I was two and it’s only gotten worse since then), and I plan to continue until my imagination stops filling my head with ideas, which should be sometime in the next century. Besides, writing novels gives me an excuse for not cleaning the house.
Fortunately, my dear husband and son tolerate my obsession because a) I still cook; b) they don’t know how to write novels; and c) they know I’m much happier with plots and characters in my head than with a mop in my hand.
So if you’d like to know more about my numerous books under various names (or find out just how I turn the flotsam and the jetsam in my head into actual books), visit my website at www.sabrinajeffries.com.
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Other Romantic Treasures by
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AFTER THE ABDUCTION. Copyright © 2002 by Deborah Martin. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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